


One Word Prompts: 40K Edition

by BolterSexual



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: F/M, Gen, Not What It Looks Like, One Word Prompts, a collection of little drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:49:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BolterSexual/pseuds/BolterSexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories, romantic drabbles, and flash fiction using the 100 words challenge. Centered around an Imperial Inquisitor with a bad habit of hanging out with Space Marines and still somehow inadvertently getting into trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smell; Drink; Shade

**Smell**

Sneering under the ornate helm, the Inquisitor kicked at the blankly staring head of an ork with the heel of her boot. "Seems clear." She quipped into the vox, her nose wrinkling as the reek of postmortum xenos permeated her senses.

"Prepare for extraction, ETA ten minutes."

Leera snorted, blood still pounding through her veins, rage coursing through every inch of her body. The battle had been long, arduous, and somehow, while lacking the stamina of the Astartes, she managed to make it out fairly unscathed. Glancing around at the kill-team, she idly wondered if any of them were even ready to depart. Surely there were more greenskins on the planet what with how bloody many of them take root once then invade, but none remained here. Regardless, it was imperative that she work off the excess steam, her choler having taken an unusually firm hold.

The town lay in ruins around them, though some buildings stood and the Inquisitor found her curiosity getting the better of her, striding with purpose to one of the empty, battered buildings to look around inside. Naturally, there wasn't much left after the orks had ransacked the place, not that she could see anything through the blood smeared on her visor anyhow. Leera released the maglocks with a grunt, shaking her hair free from the confines of the helm and peering into each room as she passed until a voice grabbed her attention.

"Bloody oomans-" 

It was barely a mumble, but very obviously did not belong to any of the squad or civilians. Fury bubbled up in Leera to overflowing and she revved her bloodied, gilded chainsword as she burst into the room with a loud snarl, the quivering ork in hiding screeching in agony as she unleashed a bolt pistol round into the creature, knocking it onto it's back and exploding out the torso, a rain of crimson and viscera showering the Inquisitor.

The Apothecary Chaplain had already noted her absence and followed her into the seemingly empty building, the jarring sounds of screaming and gunfire spurring him to a quicker pace, crozius at the ready. There was the threatening grind of a chain weapon and he turned the corner to the source of the din in time to see the Inquisitor rip through the hapless creature, her own battlecry lilting over the squelching of meaty chunks being torn from the ork beneath her furious, roaring blade. Sputtering an incoherent curse with a gurgling last breath, the greenskin was no more, leaving only Leera panting heavily as she stood over the alien, chainsword idling. She hadn't acknowledged his presence, so he spoke to make himself known, removing his helm.

"Are you injured, Inquisitor?"

Wheeling around, Leera seemed taken aback by the Chaplain's appearance, her expression rife with unfathomable rage. "Mathias." She snipped, her expression softening a bit despite the adrenaline thundering through her veins. "No. No, I'm fine." Shaking her head, she locked the bolt pistol into place at her thigh, her body still trembling with anger.

"The wrath of the Emperor is strong in you today." The Chaplain smirked, his brow knitting in a moment of confusion as she stormed across the room to him, armored glove rasping at his gorget as she yanked him down without resistance to her eye level, inhaling deeply and breathing out a low groan as the wonderous smell of sweat and blood overwhelmed her nostrils. Closing the gap between them, the Inquisitor paused only briefly to speak, her lips grazing his. 

"Indeed it is." She whispered softly before devouring his scarred mouth.

******

**Drink**

It had been a satisfying training regimen this day, having sparred against fellow Deathwatch brothers as opposed to the predictable, unchallenging programming of the training cage dummies or the servitors. Wiping a sheen of lingering perspiration from his jaw, Mathias strode through the corridors of the Astartes quarters, keen on settling down with his own solitude to focus his mind after such a rigorous tuning of the body. The hall was hardly lit with the late hour, and as his bared feet connected with the cold steel floor, his attention was drawn to a dark figure slumped against the wall, mostly still. Despite the darkness, it wasn't difficult to make out details thanks to his enhanced senses and the glow of white hair on a human-sized frame was a certain giveaway for at least a minimal number of the crew: only one of which would be found down here.

A low, soft groan roused from the figure as a red optic lens turned its attention to the approaching marine, confirming his suspicions. Curiousity as to why she was here knit his brow as he knelt down beside the figure.

"Inquisitor," he began gently before quickly recognizing the flush in her cheeks, the over-languid movements as her head tilted to crack a tired grin up at him, "you seem intoxicated, are you not well?"

"I'm...fine." She muttered, eyes fluttering closed as the smile curling her lips widened. "It's good to hear your voice, Mathias." 

Mathias fought a smirk as she slurred High Gothic with a native tongue he didn't recognize. At least she seemed to be content in her inebriation, if uncomfortably honest. Brushing a mass of bone-white hair from her face as she seemed to be slipping into sleep, he spoke again, attempting to keep her within consciousness. 

"You're a long way from your own quarters."

Glancing up at the Astartes with bleary eyes the Inquisitor shook her head slowly, unable to focus her gaze on any particular thing. "I..I know. John has a distillery he's fashioned up," she raised her hands in a broad gesture, chuckling, "it's impressive, and makes good drink. Must be that hive city tolerance that he has, it's too much for me, you know." 

A long moment passed where she ceased speaking, chest rising and falling under her overcoat, a gloved hand restlessly seeking to grab at Mathias. "Just...wanted to see you..Mathias, you've been gone all night, but I-"

Resting an oversized hand at her shoulderguard, the Chaplain shook his head, his tone commanding but gentle. "Silence, Leera."

"Mmph." 

It seemed a cooperative noise, if a bit reluctant as her body slumped back against the wall. "Come now, let's get you to the quiet of your quarters. You'd like to sleep, yes?" Mathias bent forward to ease her mostly limp frame from the wall, sitting her upright and slipping his trunk-like arms underneath to lift her as a child. 

Even so, the Inquisitor grumbled incoherently, shaking her head. "No...I hate sleep." Shifting in his cradled grip, Leera turned to his chest, grabbing a fistful of his tabard and clinging to it as the light rocking motion of his footsteps set in.

"I know." He muttered with a slight grimace.

******

**Shade**

"Are you certain?" Leera grimaced, her gaze darting over the servitors and techs bustling about, preparing the ship for landfall. "It's not going to be easy..."

"I'm sure. Victory is your only option, Leera." the Lord Inquisitor offered a wry, albeit reassuring grin, hazel eyes glimmering with promise. 

"But why aren't you going?"

"I have matters I must attend to, but remember-" a klaxon sounding cut off Hawthorne's growling tone as the kill-team finished their rites and assembled in an orderly fashion to board the dropship.

Abruptly he yanked the Acolyte aside, under the shadow of the massive wings of the ship and out of view. For a moment Leera seemed cross before the Lord Inquisitor shoved her against the steel plating of the holding bay, her lightweight ceramite armor clattering loudly against it. Words were pointless over the racket of the alarms even at such a proximity, yet Hawthorne sealed her mouthing lips with his own, voraciously pulling her into a kiss. Red lights continued to strobe lazily in the hangar even as the alarm died down and he pulled away from the affection, dragging a soft, trailing groan from Leera's throat. Gold irises searched his expression as she gathered her composure and knelt down to retrieve her helm, having dropped it in the heated moment.

Hawthorne gently gripped at her chin as she stood up again, thumb grazing her swollen lower lip. "Remember," he began, a slow grin crawling onto his face, "the Emperor protects."


	2. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another word: Dark. The will of Nurgle brings an unexpected guest to Leera's illness-driven haze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got home from work and whipped this up
> 
> I need sleep
> 
> Enjoy

"Leera."

The tone, the timbre of the voice was familiar...soothing. Even in sleep her entire form ached under the strain of the necrosis she'd been exposed to, but this. This was different, a comfort in the threatening darkness of the mind. The Inquisitor's eyes fluttered open and the man-made gloom of the sick bay was no more, replaced instead with the thick, humid jungles of her homeworld. A raucous of bird-like creatures resounded from the impossibly high canopy sewn with thick vines of the most vivid of greens, far from even the sight of her false eye but pleasant to the addled mind. Drawing in a slow breath, a smile stitched the corners of her lips, eyelids hooded over the mismatched orbs.

"The rains will come soon." She murmured tiredly to no one, vocal chords aching.

"Indeed they will." That voice once more: soft, like a caress to the senses, "Rise, Leera."

Gently, her mind creeped to recognition of the seemingly disembodied voice, and her reply was but a meek whisper. "..Hawthorne..?" 

The Inquisitor's brow knit in confusion, the shadow of a smile melting from her visage. Bare, calloused hands clutched at the cool earth reflexively, anxiously testing the validity of her surroundings. To her disappointment, her palms clutched at living plant matter, felt it balk in her grasp.

"I wish to you show you something... my sweet Leera."

Screwing her eyes closed, the sheer pressure of her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the ambiance of the forest and freezing the Inquisitor into place. Fear. Heartache. Rage. All bubbled to the surface of every nerve ending in her body. "Leave me be." She rasped, the strain of emotion more apparent with each syllable passing her lips.

But why was she incapable of moving? Was she merely imagining being pinned, the ungodly gravity on her form only a fallacy? 

"Don't be ridiculous, my dear. Great things have transpired while I have been away." The Lord Inquisitor's voice was dangerously close now, only mere inches from her. Leera cursed under her breath, certain she could feel his breath wash over her.

"You are no more, and no trickery of your gods will convince me otherwise." Temper flaring and increasingly frustrated with being rooted to the earth, her resolve was breaking, fingers wrenching up handfuls of the thick, healthy soil.

"I daresay I am in good health these days. Grandfather has been most gracious, you see."

A definite grip formed at her forearms and Leera bucked in immediate response, eyes alight with angry fire as they shot open, an animalistic snarl searing her dry, tortured throat. Indeed, the former Lord Inquisitor appeared in good shape, perched atop her like a triumphant predator in some twisted game of cat and mouse, his unmarred face much too close for comfort. Hazel eyes stared back into the gold and red oculi of her own, the life returned to them from the cold, empty stare of his corpse before the purge by fire. A warm grin she'd seen a million times in the shadow of privacy tugged at his lips, perspiration from the jungle's humidity clinging to short-cropped hair as rich as dark chocolate. Even the scent of him...

Exactly as he was before the descent to madness, before the cold execution given by her own hands.

Leera felt conflict wringing knots in her heaving torso and she blinked tears from the corners of her eyes despite herself, scarred lips trembling with the effort to speak.

"Throne..." she finally croaked, choking back a broken sob.

She inhaled sharply, face contorting in raw emotion as it came unfettered, beyond the grasp of self control. Hawthorne took the cue and abruptly seized her mouth with his own, hands moving from her pinned arms to lace loving fingers in the hair atop her head, white as the driven snow. The pangs in her chest swelled into passion and Leera clutched at the lapel of his coat in earnest, the familiar taste of him burning like white-hot promethium at her lips.

The heat of his tongue to hers seared the flesh and the Inquisitor recoiled, suddenly remembering herself, but Hawthorne refuted the effort, his grip turning aggressive and purposeful. Panic flickered across her senses and her fingertips sought his face to pry it away, nerves blaring with pain as the heat spread to her throat, infesting her with something unseen, a muffled refusal overturned by an onslaught of thick fluid that came in such volume as to seep from the corners of their conjoined mouths. Leera writhed beneath the Lord Inquisitor, her aching muscles forgotten in desperation as with a final buck, she'd separated herself from him, retching and gasping for air amid the contagion.

"Leera, please-" his voice droned, all personality stripped from the words as black oil bubbled over his lip, oozing from his nostrils and eyes.

Her gaze caught the skies only just past the revolting visage, growing dark as rain began to plink down between the awning of foliage. This was no rain, as the first few drops landed heavily on her bared skin, more sensory alarms as each connection immediately burned at her flesh, an audible sizzle as it erupted into boils. A blood curdling scream clawed its way from the Inquisitor's throat and she bolted upright, new-found fury fueling her strength in freeing herself from him and to composing herself to her feet. Backpedaling, she regarded Hawthorne with pain and anger, her breath ragged as the oil-slick fluid wormed its way into the soft tissue of her lungs.

"Grandfather will take the pain from you, you need only ask." Hawthorne gurgled as he knelt on the forest floor, expression blank as though the acrid rain did no harm. Stretching out his hand in offering, a dry smile curled his stained lips. "Come, you will see."

Before given the chance to deny him, the ground itself opened its maw to swallow her, silent and abrupt and Leera found herself falling into nothingness, circled by dark whispers in strange tongues, tendrils of the blackness itself entwining around her limbs and seeking entry to her body. Shrieking in defiance, she clutched at the nearly intangible darkness to rip away its deadly, prying grasp even as it tickled at her cheek. Hateful tears streamed down her face as the black void began to outdo her struggling before a murky light shone from below, much too far to see what lay beyond. Her body barreled down, down, down at such a speed that her stomach flipped in and around itself, bringing bile to the back of her throat. As quickly as the invasive tendrils had attacked, they withdrew, in seeming obedience to the light as she tumbled into the blinding wreath of white.

"Inquisitor-" A seeking voice called her attention and Leera felt her eyes open again, once more surrounded by the bleak cell of the sick bay. "Are you with us, Inquisitor?"

Unable to find words, Leera merely nodded to the muddled view of an apothecary brandishing a red lightning bolt across the shoulderguard nearest her, unmistakable silver of the Astartes' other arm shimmering under the light as a firm, comforting grip of ceramite encased her wrist.

"Let me rest." She mumbled weakly, already drifting back into sleep.


	3. She; He

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More prompts and Inquisitor/Chaplain fluffiness

**SHE**

A witch.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Abhor the witch, destroy the witch. This is my vow and yet, she...

Emperor guide me, I know not why her touch burns so. It should repulse me, but it does not. Her human body is frail, the mind a battleground of warp-taint and fallacy. It disgusts me, yet I wish to feel her in my grip as I would any weapon in Your name.

Her breath trembles, she is before me and I must smite her down but these hearts beat in a strange rhythm and I hesitate. She knows my hatred and persists...her spirit is strong, magnetic, much like the scent of her so thick in my senses.

She commands and I must obey, but there is no rank and file to be found here. Merely a siren's call to something more primal than my own resolve.

I have learned to tolerate, and that has made me weak.

Forgive me.

 

  
**HE**

That passive visage does nothing to hide the iced glare boring into my soul. He sees me for what I am, that much is plain.

It is no secret that he would just as soon crush me in his bare hands as speak and yet...

His hands are on me but there is no malice, only conviction.

Perhaps guilt...

I am weak, and I have dragged him down with me, to the pits of my own carnal nature. Here there is only darkness and sin, but he follows willingly, untouched by the daemons of the human mind.

A perfect machine of war.

A creature unlike any other.

Surely the hitch in his breath is revulsion, disdain... but he continues, hands clutching with the eagerness of something to hold but there is no comfort of his crozius here.

His expression is softening, something human behind his gaze.

There are things mankind is not meant to see...

If this is one of them, let them burn me for my transgressions because I will not ask for forgiveness.

Not for this.


	4. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But who is truly dead after this encounter? Lots of gross Nurgle stuff here, you have been forewarned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fiddling around with the 100 word prompts. I haven't written anything in forever so touching up something that was unfinished was good practice.

In an instant too quickly to even see, Leera found her entire form wracked with agony, suddenly sandwiched between 500 pounds of decaying flesh and the hard reality of the confines of the pit. Just beyond the fabric of the veil, Hawthorne's uncorrupted form faded in and out of realspace, his grin reflected on the face of the monster he'd become, a twisted, massive being rippling with infestation, face gnarled into a maw that expanded over where an eye should be and filled with rows upon rows of needle-like teeth. Pus wept freely from open wounds and his jaundiced, drooping eye, and beneath the layer of skin puckered and festering with boils Leera could swear she felt oversized maggots writhing in his belly. A long, sickly grey tongue flopped out of the creature's jaws, flinging heavy threads of saliva as it sought to touch her, it's acrid breath washing over her face in a humid, vomit-inducing wave. 

The tongue lapped wetly against her head and as the muscle connected with her scalp, blisters rose, burst, and wept in a matter of seconds, opening the floodgates as the saliva invaded her untainted flesh with a virulient poison. Siezing in panic, the Inquisitor fought for focus against the painful contagion, her body starting to crackle with visible, tangible, energy as she drew it in desperation from the Immaterium, coalescing into an arc of lightning that sizzled the patched hair on the creature's swollen head and burned at its greyed, writhing flesh. Howling in pain, the being recoiled and stepped back, freeing Leera from the disgusting, suffocating prison.

Chaplain Faust announced his assist as he connected with the crozius against the side of the monster's head, shattering a good portion of the brittle teeth in its jaws in a glorious eruption of blackened, rotten blood and throwing the beast off-balance with the sheer force of the attack, bones snapping under its own weight as it toppled to the floor: down, but not out. Choking on her own inhale, Leera hacked up a spattering of crimson with the effort of bringing down her roaring chainsword, the deeply serrated blade barbarically carving into the neck of the monster as it tried to rise on broken legs. Grasping the handle with both hands, the Inquisitor cried out as burning hot fury took command of her form, body alighting with a burst of inhuman will as the blade finally chirped over bone, a quick whine before breaking through and severing the head of the unholy creature.

Almost instantly, the remaining crowd of polluted and half-decayed bodies thudded to the ground, suddenly lifeless. Panting for her breath and shaking from the adrenaline, Leera's face was drawn pale as she dragged the sword free of the beast's flesh, no longer seeing a walking plague but the twisted, mangled form of a very human Hawthorne at her feet. The Inquisitor was violently and abruptly ill, the righteous fire in her veins doused in a tsunami of emotions as the gravity of the situation fell on her, obliterating any inkling of concentration that was combating this beast's affliction. Dropping to her hands and knees, Leera retched against the steelcrete, her heaving breath and the splatter of fluids against the hard surface echoing in the now silent tomb. 

"Mathias-" Leera wheezed, rising shakily to her feet as the infection bored into her systems, rotting each of her organic systems from the inside out. 

The necrosis creeped into visibility even as she fought to contain the spread by her own will, the air falling frigid throughout the pit as she struggled to compensate and resist the potent disease. Without a word in response, the Apothecary Chaplain's ceramite-clad arm swept up behind her in support, the narthecium unit at his other wrist piercing the Inquisitor's armor plate and hissing into action as Mathias administered a payload of heavy narcotics. Leera's entire frame was flushed with ice, melting into a state of numb, throbbing heat, her mind spiraling into the abyss and forbidding her mis-matched eyes from staying open. The heavy, muffled sound of the squad approaching was distant, and Leera felt her legs give way, unconsciousness stalking the edges of her senses before Mathias' distorted voice over the vox finally dragged the Inquisitor down into the mire.


	5. Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in death, the spirit may serve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty short and I'm running out of steam for tonight so it's being posted as it's own chapter heh

"How is our good Chaplain faring?" Leera murmured, the _click-clock_ of her boots wreaking havoc on the vast stillness of the room as she approached the solitary, albeit expansive console. 

The looming shadow of a warrior hanged among masses of tubes and cables and entombed in the cask of a great machine was a foreboding weight on her soul, the Inquisitor's gaze darting from the illuminated screens in a halo around the Adept to the imposing visage. Steam lingered in wafts around the incomplete construct, it's dormancy apparent.

"Only time will tell, Inquisitor. At the very least, the machine spirit seems cooperative with the current vessel." the Enginseer grated softly over a vox emitter, red oculi turning to Leera from under the heavy cloth hood, her mechadendrites whirring and flitting over the dim control panels, ever busy of their own accord it seemed. 

"Is he coherent?" she inquired, white eyebrow arcing in measured curiosity, eyes glued to the massive chassis and the Aquila emblazoned across the entire front plating, the true gold of it glimmering even in the low light. 

"It would not hurt to try, I suppose." the Techpriest replied simply before turning her attentions back to the standalone console, carbon-fiber forearms emerging from her thick, crimson robes to interface directly with the monitors, the dexterous bionics flowing and arcing with an inhuman ease as her fingertips pulled and rotated diagrams, flipping through readings without any mind to the Inquisitor.

The Inquisitor huffed softly, straightening out the buttoned front of her overcoat before stepping beyond the threshold of the center console, the hair at her neck standing on end at the anticipation. Leera was no fool and was perfectly aware that he might not reply, despite the imploding strain in her chest when the thought of it occurred. Swallowing hard, she drew in a slow, purposeful breath, muttering a curse and condemning the fresh image of the Chaplain's disfigured form from her mind as she continued her tenuous approach, the clack of her boots on the steelcrete all but disappearing to her senses with each step. Leera felt her throat tighten as her feet fell still, nearly directly beneath the mass of ceramite and tech.

"Mathias...?" She began quietly, almost in awe at the partially assembled fist of the Emperor before her. Clearing her throat, the Inquisitor hardened her voice to a more commanding stature. "Faust." 

The silence that followed was near-painful, the Inquisitor sighing out heavily after a time before turning abruptly on her heels to take her leave from the confines of this place. 

"Inquisitor?" The soft ring of the Enginseer's augmented voice lilted across Leera's path, bringing her to a halt. Without a word, she gestured the Adept to continue. "It might be preferable to give this some time," the Techpriest offered a gentle, seemingly faceless smile without ever peeling her attention from the constant stream of information displayed on the radiating monitors, "He will serve again, I will see to it myself. He is a strong soul, and I believe the Omnissiah has great plans for this one."


	6. Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leera warms up to Hawthorne.
> 
> ...I'm tired.

An abrupt chill struck Hawthorne to the bones as white hot electricity erupted from his protege's palms with a sharp crack, arcing forward in a wave of energy and destruction. The training servitor seized violently before crumpling to the floor, a light wisp of smoke trailing from the remains as the unpleasant scent of electrical fire filled the Inquisitor's nostrils.

Wrinkling his nose at the offending smell, he shot Leera a crooked smile, pleased to see her improvement. "I knew you could channel that destructively. Well done."

The Acolyte's eyes fell from him to the floor as she muttered a response. "You know I'd rather not."

Hawthorne paused, smirk faltering and his tone hardening. "It's important that you are able to defend yourself. This is not an evil thing if you can control it, and I for one have faith in your abilities." Leera's skin pricked as a warmth enveloped her anxious mind, smoothing it over like sand. _I didn't abscond with you from that Witch Hunter for nothing, you know._

Leera didn't shy away as he wrapped an arm around her torso, gently pulling her to him. "I can defend myself perfectly well without it," she began, voice trailing softly as his unshaven face lingered at her ear.

The Acolyte felt a slight push of energy from his form to hers, the Inquisitor's intentions blatant and unfettered in the mind-tap. Once more, she did not startle from his advances. If anything, she remained passive, permitting Hawthorne's affections for the time being. 

_Not only are you a sight for tired eyes, I feel the potential in you every time I lay a finger on your flesh and blood. It's incredible._

His grip tightened only slightly as he buried his nose into Leera's hair, drawing a deep breath. The Acolyte felt her stomach flip, neck and shoulder lighting up with erogenous signals that burrowed into a slow heat, spreading to every fiber of her being. Silently chiding herself, she wondered just how much of this bodily betrayal was The Inquisitor's doing. With a flow of honey to her mind, she received her answer. 

_I'm not telling your body to give in to me, and quite frankly I'm perturbed that you'd consider such a thing._ Hawthorne breathed out against her throat, grazing it with a brief kiss that skillfully pulled a small moan from within her as she melted against him. _You react plenty fine on your own, my dear._

She hated him. Hated the ease with which he could make her body quiver, flushing her veins with burning fire and electrifying every nerve ending as though she herself were struck by lightning, an assault of the senses that consistently coalesced into her demise.

**Author's Note:**

> More to come once I finish them, if I finish them.. None of these will be in any sort of chronological order, obviously.


End file.
